I lost my virginity to a man named Pierre two weeks after meeting him.
Well, of course, Pierre isn’t his real name. How many real Frenchmen do you know named Pierre? Enid Blyton names every other Frenchman
“Pierre” in her kiddie novels, but in real life, most Frenchmen have names like Philippe or Jean or something entirely unpronounceable. It’s never as simple as Pierre.
Anyway, Pierre isn’t French, he’s Belgian. He is whiter than white, has perfect skin (perfect enough, that is, to be remarkable for his age), brown eyes, sandy-grey hair, and a huge cock that swells up and sticks out perpendicularly from his very thin body like a rose-red battering ram.
I was saying that I lost my virginity to him two weeks after meeting him. I suppose you’re wanting an explanation of this somewhat extraordinary statement. It’s just not worth the bother. Therefore, feel free to fit us both into any convenient category of human behaviour. Rest assured, I will not complain. Complaining, I find, is the refuge of the weak and unimaginative who have neither the courage to put up with shit nor the wherewithal to get out of it.
However I will answer the usual round of questions.
1. Yes, he is married.
2. Yes, I knew it.
3. Yes, he’s a horny old man. Exactly 23 years older than me, if you like precise figures.
4. Yes, I am Asian-Chinese, if you also enjoy precise descriptions. And I therefore qualify, as my little brother pointed out with a shudder, as an SPG.
5. No, he didn’t dump me after one night of sex … BUT!
6. Yes, the relationship is pretty much all about sex.
By the way, yes, you are free to join my brother and think of me as an SPG. I like the phrase “Sarong Party Girl” really. Wear a sarong, go out and party. Of course, the SPG’s reason for wearing a sarong-or whatever conveniently unwrappable dress is in fashion these days-and going to a party is usually to pick up a White Man. Whether or not this was my specific intention while partying in a sarong, I’m not bothering to clarify. You are perfectly free to draw your own conclusions about me, as I am of you.
I became Pierre’s mistress without intending to. What I was intending was to do was sleep with him so as to get rid of my tiresome virginity, which had been left stubbornly on my hands for 26 years.
I was telling you Pierre had a cock like a battering ram. A virgin pussy becomes deeply startled when faced with the prospect of penetration by a battering ram. A pulse of sheer panic raced up and down me when the whole bulk of it emerged from between the silver teeth of his zipper.
“That’s not going to fit! It’s HUGE!” I bellowed, flinging all thought of seductive atmosphere, which I’d been carefully building up for three hours, to the winds. Pierre shook his head, disparagingly. “Average,” he murmured,
The average size of the male penis is six to seven inches erect.
Proportionately, Pierre was not wrong, though, for he is six foot tall. His problem is that he is underweight for his height, so that a penis which would have looked relatively proportionate for a six-foot, 180-pound man, looks preposterously gargantuan for a six-foot man who only weighs 135 pounds.
Now, I am very short, even for an Asian girl. I didn’t even know if I had enough piping for this plunger.
“Think of it as a baby’s head,” he persuaded me silkily, pushing me quite firmly down under him. “That’s what it’s built for, right?”
“I suppose so,” I replied dubiously, and gritted my teeth.
Pierre had been told by a friend that I was a virgin. He did not believe I was a virgin. I did not act like a virgin and I hadn’t bothered to tell him.
Because if I had, he wouldn’t have slept with me; it’s that simple.
“I shouldn’t have been your first experience,” he exclaimed in dismay when he finally asked and I told him.
This surprised me, because I had judged him at first glance very much the way you might have been doing up to this point. I had seen a nattily dressed, charmingly seductive older European man, freely discussing his experiences with many girlfriends. I had therefore fit him neatly into that handy category, the Horny White Man.
Oh, let me elaborate just a little. Horny White Man: Good in bed, generous with women, dislikes long-term relationships, probably divorced/ married, adulterous. The HWM is the antithesis of the SPG, which is why they are drawn to each other. HWMs are for the most part weak in character, strong in personality, easily led but difficult to pin down. It takes our strong-willed SPGs five minutes to lead a HWM to the altar, and an ensuing five years (or the equivalent in alcohol) to force them to sign the registry.
I suppose there are degrees of Horny White Man-ness, just as there are degrees of Sarong Party Girl-ness. Some are merciless, some are buoyant with random sincere affection, some are in-between. I am in-between; Pierre, as I grow to know him, is closer to the extreme of sincere, emotional attachment for every beautiful woman on earth, and some not so beautiful as well. (And a few who are not, technically, women. Don‘t ask.) But we were talking about the sex.
I believe the secret to good sex is enjoying your own body. I am inordinately vain about my body. I have perfect breasts, each one a nice firm but soft handful, set high and full against my ribcage; I have a splendid waist, nicely tucked-in, and very comfortable, plus round, dimpled arms and legs. I have little love for my ass, but Pierre turned out to like it best, so altogether I believe myself a regular Aphrodite, and knowing oneself to be an Aphrodite does wonders for one’s performance in bed.
A book called The Satanic Witch suggests that men are most turned on by underwear they’re not supposed to be seeing (i.e. not the half-naked stripper doing the pole dance on the stage, but the primly dressed girl whose thong might be just peeking out over the top of her jeans). Most importantly, one must make the most of what one has, whether it be sexual charisma, bedroom eyes, or a good set of tits. The important thing is to seem accessible without seeming easy.
I have always loved my tits. The first man to squeeze them was a fellow called Jeff. He watched me dancing on a platform with my tits on the verge of bouncing entirely free of my slightly exposed bra, until he approached me for a dance and took the opportunity to grope me, first one breast, then the other. Growing bolder, he pressed his fingers inside my blouse, then my bra, and fingered my nipples. That was rather nice, but then I decided he would be no fun as a First Experience (random gropers seldom are) and escaped.
On the whole, I am glad I waited for Pierre, who flirted before he seduced, and seduced before he groped, which is only polite.
The first part of me he saw naked was my left breast, which he peeked at by lifting the corner of my blouse. Being very pleased with my breasts, as I’ve explained, I allowed him.
“Now I can’t stand up,” he murmured, smiling faintly. “Everyone will see.”
I thought this rather complimentary, considering the vast number of tits he has seen in his career as a ladies’ man. We then progressed, after a great deal of impolite cuddling, to bed.
Having believed myself in possession of a perfect body for so long, it seemed a marvelous moment to finally show it off, in all its glory, for another human being’s appreciation. It was unwrapped by stages; it was rubbed first, through my clothes, through my bra, then under my bra, which was finally unhooked. I presented my naked tits to him for further attention, which he gave most obligingly. He then searched under my skirt, discovered perfectly ordinary white cotton panties and was extremely pleased.
This is not to say that I lay there like a blow-up doll. I had saved my virginity not out of a sense of sexual morality, but out of an abhorrence of waste; I didn’t want to waste that first, irretrievable experience on the male version of a blow-up doll. I therefore had no intention of being anything less than responsive. Being determined to leave my state of inexperience with a vengeance, I began with what would become my favourite beginning-a blow job.
Blow jobs interest me. I have a friend for whom sex has been a matter-of-fact affair since the age of fourteen. She has made love in all conceivable positions, licked, sucked, tickled and teased every easily accessible orifice of her longtime boyfriend’s body (and he hers), attempted interesting experiments with honey, wax, chocolate, whipped cream. Yet her imagination is not what one would call vast.
“What does cock taste like?” I asked her eagerly once.
She shrugged disinterestedly. “Like skin, lah,” she replied.
Admittedly, her simple answer made me a whole lot less afraid of giving a blow job, and when I finally had the chance to fit a cock into my mouth, I went at it with enthusiasm. Let it never be said that I give a sloppy blow job!
Oh no. The very idea of a blow job deeply entices me.
There is so much to a man’s cock besides the taste of skin, lah. There is the thin, silky texture of the shaft as your tongue slides over it, the soft, warm marshmallow of the head that quickly tightens into a hot, quivering ball when your lips close over it. I have longed to give a blow job ever since I read about it in my mother’s copy of Everywoman, to find all the tickly bits with my tongue and suck milk from the tip like an infant on a nipple. To feel the soft flesh grow hot and stiff in my mouth is an instant of the most irrevocable power a woman can have over a man. In short? Cock, basically, tastes pretty damn good.
Another question I asked my matter-of-fact friend: what does semen taste like?
“Salty,” she said.
Another, more descriptive girl said, “At first, it’s thick and goes goosh, goosh, goosh. After that it’s thinner and kind of watery and it just goes spurt.
I investigated with great interest the taste of semen. This particular batch was, well, salty. With a hint of cigarettes and alcohol. And it was something between the goosh and the splut.
Having been a virgin for twenty-six years, I’d had plenty of time to consider what a cock would feel like, as well as taste like. “It’s a muscle,” Pierre explained to me one day, much later, favouring me also with the various Latinate anatomical names for various regions of the male genitalia.
This includes the perineum, which is apparently the “male clitoris”, the interesting wrinkly bit of skin between the end of the balls and the beginning of the asshole. For women, this is mainly just a bony bit that bruises if you’re too skinny, but not for men, it seems.
I once knew a girl who described a large bodybuilder as having a body that “felt like one giant, erect cock.” So yes, I must say, a giant, erect cock feels rather like a miniature bodybuilder. The skin is soft, what’s beneath is hard and pulsates with small movements like the smaller tendons and fibres in a very lean bodybuilder’s arm.
Pierre took his time about putting his miniature bodybuilder to its appropriate use. The lingering moments he spent in fondling my breasts, running his tongue around my ass and flicking it across my clitoris, all reassured me more and more than I had picked the right man to be rapidly experiencing the First Time with.
I had to consciously refrain from reaching orgasm within five seconds of feeling his massive cock snugly slipping inside me. I will not attempt to describe how it feels, because English is woefully short of subtle language for sex. (Unlike, say, ancient Greek or Roman Latin, which got very specific about who was doing what to whom with what, and where.) The earth didn’t move. It didn’t have to. I just had an explosive orgasm, with every muscle of my body. An explosive orgasm is as descriptive as it needs to get, really.
Pierre himself took his time about it. This is rare for a man, but the whole point of picking him over any number of other men was the high probability that he knew how to do it.
That was the end of my virginity. And it’s funny, but when I think back on it, there are two moments in my life that have been such great triumphs they fill me with a lasting sense of purpose and joie de vivre that continue to echo throughout my life.
One was losing my virginity to a stranger named Pierre. And the other is none of your business.